World Domination, or Not
by Stormcloud Empath
Summary: Harry PotterAvengers crossover. The year is 1967, and a certain aspiring Dark Lord wants to take over all of England-an extraordinary crime. Unfortunately for him, two Muggle agents extraordinary are already on the case.
1. Avada Kedavra!

Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling, and the Avengers aren't mine either.  
  
(AN: Before I begin, I would just like to point out that the timelines of this fic really do line up. Tom Riddle left Hogwarts in the mid-40s, but he didn't come to power as Lord Voldemort until 1970. I think it's a bit of a stretch for somebody that power-hungry to wait that long; he should have been ready for takeover by the mid-60s at the latest. And in the mid- 60s, John Steed and Emma Peel were Muggle Britain's top spies, agents extraordinary solving extraordinary crimes.)  
  
Chapter 1: Avada Kedavra!  
  
Lord Voldemort turned to his one of his newest recruits, Antonin Dolohov, a smile playing about his thin lips. 'Dolohov,' he said, addressing what appeared to be a black sheet with stuffing inside it, as Dolohov was currently hidden beneath his Death Eater's hood, 'We are ready now. We shall seize power before the Ministry of Magic has time to fight back. Every year, we will get stronger, as those Hogwarts students slip right through Armando Dippet's unsuspecting fingers and into my army! Every year, we will gain more soldiers for the Dark Order! Soon we will control all of Britain, and then we can move southward through France into Spain and Portugal, and from there eastward until we control all of Europe. At that point the Soviet Union will fall to us, and from there we can invade America and Canada by way of Alaska. By 1970, we will have conquered the world, purging every village through which we march of all of its Muggle and Mudblood slime! Only then will the dreams of my great descendant, Salazar Slytherin, truly be realised!'  
  
Dolohov nodded with sadistic, sycophantic excitement. 'My Lord,' he breathed, 'it will be ours! First London, then all of England, then the whole of Britain, then continental Europe, the Soviet Union, America and all the world!'  
  
Lieutenant Terrence Hopper had heard enough. He had no search warrant, but these people were clearly insane. His feelings towards the old lady who had roused him from bed in the middle of the night by phoning in a 'disturbing the peace' complaint suddenly grew much warmer. This story could land him on the front page of the London Times!  
  
Hopper burst through the door, his gun held steady. 'You're under arrest, both of you,' he said in a gruff yet businesslike manner. 'You're to be charged with planned acts of terrorism and anarchical activities, as well as treason against Her Majesty and the Crown, not to mention disturbing the peace. Don't move or I'll shoot.'  
  
Voldemort laughed, and Dolohov quickly echoed his master's amusement. 'Did you hear that, Dolohov?' Voldemort asked, his tone of voice saturated with mockery. 'This foolish Muggle is going to shoot us!'  
  
Hopper ignored the insult and took out his notepad. 'Your names, please?'  
  
'Lord Voldemort,' Voldemort answered with a derisive sneer. He drew out his wand. Hopper snorted.  
  
'A stick?' he asked incredulously. 'Is that the best you've got? What do you think you're going to do, hit me to death?'  
  
'No, Muggle,' Voldemort whispered silkily. 'Crucio.'  
  
Hopper dropped both his notes and weapon as he fell to the floor, screaming in pain. His bones were on fire, or so it seemed. This was pain of the worst possible kind. After only a minute, Hopper could stand no more. 'No!' he pleaded. 'Stop! I'll do anything! I'll let you go, I'll even cover up for you. . .stop the pain! I can't take it anymore!'  
  
'Dolohov, it seems this Muggle wants us to "stop the pain," ' Voldemort mused in falsely thoughtful voice. 'Only one way to do that, I'm afraid, or at least in your case, that is.' Voldemort angled his wand downward, pointing it directly at Hopper's chest. 'Avada Kedavra!'  
  
There was a blinding flash of green light, and Lieutenant Hopper was dead. Voldemort and his deputy Dolohov laughed insanely.  
  
The next day, Emma Peel was driving along in her blue sportscar. When she stopped at a red traffic light, she noticed the licence plate on an antique car parked on the curb. It read, 'MRS PEEL.'  
  
John Steed appeared just then, rapping on Emma's window. 'We're needed,' he said, smiling his impish smile as Emma tried futilely to look annoyed.  
  
Steed hopped into Emma's car just as the traffic light turned green. 'Where to, sir?' Emma asked playfully.  
  
'Straight through this intersection, turn right at the next. It seems a police officer's been murdered.'  
  
'Doesn't that happen everyday? What are the special circumstances this time?'  
  
'There are no marks on him, no autopsy evidence of any kind to explain how he was killed-'  
  
'And no motive to indicate why, I suppose?'  
  
'None. But before we get into that, we've got figure out what killed him. He's not the first. There've been two other deaths just like that recently, and in the same neighborhood.'  
  
'Then it's highly unlikely that he died of fright, which was the only other possibility. So we've got no suspect and no weapon. This is unusual.' Emma paused, thinking hard. 'Were the other victims policemen?'  
  
'No. One was a farmer and the other was unemployed.'  
  
'So we haven't even got a thread to connect the incidents. Nothing except. . .nothing.'  
  
'Exactly. Turn left here.'  
  
'As you wish.'  
  
Emma turned left, and Steed pointed out a small house on the side of the road. 'Pull over there.'  
  
'The scene of the crime?'  
  
'Of course.'  
  
Emma parked the sportscar, and she and Steed climbed out. Steed led the way up the front walk and opened the door for Emma, being the Old World gentleman that he was. Steed pointed down a hallway with his brolly, and Emma followed the trail.  
  
Emma stopped when she came upon the body of the ill-fated cop. She stooped down to check his pulse, wanting to be absolutely sure that he was in fact dead. Steed was right; there were no signs at all to point to his killer or even what sort of weapon had killed him. But he was dead, all right. The officer was limp and cold to the touch.  
  
'Convinced yet?' Steed asked teasingly as he caught up with her.  
  
'It's strange,' Emma replied, half-joking. 'I'm convinced, but I've no idea of what. What was the victim's name?'  
  
'Lieutenant Terrence Hopper. He was sent out to investigate a disturbing the peace complaint-'  
  
'-and he never returned,' Emma finished. 'Who filed the complaint?'  
  
'An old widow, Mrs Brenda Hough. Lives over there, on the other side of Little Hangleton.'  
  
'Little Hangleton?'  
  
'Didn't you notice the sign welcoming us to this charming village?'  
  
'I was too busy following your directions. So do we have any leads other than Mrs Hough?'  
  
'I was thinking you might go down to the police station, glean what information you van from Hopper's colleagues-'  
  
'-while you seek an audience with dear Brenda.'  
  
'Mrs Peel!' Steed exclaimed, going slightly red in the face. 'What are you hinting at? Mrs Hough is 87 years old!'  
  
Emma just laughed, and Steed joined in before he could stop himself.  
  
Steed bid his partner adieu, then walked outside whilst Emma began searching Hopper's wallet for clues about his precinct. Steed had just left the building when a middle-aged man with a limp stepped out from the bushes.  
  
'Who are you, and what do you think you're doing here?' the limping man asked, surprisingly bold for his condition.  
  
'The name is Steed, John Steed. I'm selling typewriters; I was wondering if the master of this house had any use for them.'  
  
'This house hasn't been lived in for years,' the man informed Steed. 'I'm the gardener, I would know. Not since them Riddles were murdered-'  
  
'Riddles?'  
  
'Why else would they call it the Riddle House? Some twenty years ago, all three of 'em just turned up dead. No marks, no motive, no nothing to show how they went. And-' the man continued, his voice rising, 'everybody here thinks I did it! I, Frank Bryce, commit a crime like that? No way!'  
  
'Mr Bryce,' Steed interjected, 'have you any idea who was responsible for the Riddles' deaths?'  
  
'There was a teenage boy there,' Frank answered, 'but nobody saw him but me, so the police think I made him up. But he was there, I saw him, skulking around the house that day, so he must've been the one who killed 'em, 'cause I sure didn't.'  
  
'Thank you, Mr Bryce, you've been most helpful,' Steed replied, and then, remembering his pretence, he added, 'I couldn't possibly interest you in a typewriter, could I?'  
  
'No thank you, Mr Steed.' 


	2. Of Tough Guy Cops and Little Old Ladies

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter, and the Avengers aren't mine either.  
  
Chapter 2: Of Tough-Guy Cops and Little Old Ladies  
  
Emma Peel searched carefully for clues about Lieutenant Hopper. She suspected that this killer was choosing victims randomly, but that couldn't be the total truth. There had to be some sort of common factor, for no one would be so precise as to leave absolutely no mark in a truly random murder.  
  
But there was absolutely nothing. Hopper worked for a precinct based at Chestnut Street in London and lived in a slummy apartment complex just across from it. Emma sighed and decided she'd better follow Steed's instructions. Pocketing Hopper's wallet, she suddenly noticed something else: His killer hadn't bothered to steal the two twenty-pound notes the late detective had been carrying. That was nothing if not odd, and suddenly Emma wondered if they were counterfeit notes. That might be a clue worth following. But she decided to go to the precinct first, where she could ask Hopper's colleagues if they thought the money was fake.  
  
Emma walked outside through the front door, preoccupied with thinking up a cover story. She climbed into her car and started to drive away, not realising that she was being watched. Across the street from the crime scene was what appeared to be a ruin, an abandoned construction site.  
  
This 'ruin' was actually a training yard for Lord Voldemort's recruits, with a line of small dwellings in the back, which served as sleeping quarters. There was one comparatively large quarter in one corner, which served as a place of repose for Voldemort himself, and unlike the others, which were extremely austere, it was equipped with every fathomable and unfathomable magical luxury. From here the Dark Lord was entertaining his servant Antonin Dolohov, or rather ordering him around and berating him for his slowness at carrying out the orders.  
  
'Dolohov,' said Voldemort carelessly, 'I am not a vampire. Sunlight is not hazardous to my health. I demand that you open that window immediately, you lazy fool.'  
  
'Of-of course, my Lord,' stuttered Dolohov, who privately thought that his master was pale enough to the point where the sun could probably do tremendous damage to his health. 'Your wish is my command.'  
  
As Dolohov started forward to open the window, Voldemort laughed his high- pitched laugh. 'You mock me, Dolohov,' he said in his high, cold voice. 'I thought I had already taught you that lesson. I am all-powerful, the greatest sorcerer in the world. I have already risen far above the impudent thoughts of worthless henchmen such as yourself. But perhaps you need reminding?'  
  
As Dolohov opened his mouth to protest, Voldemort cut across him. 'Do not lie, Dolohov,' he interjected dangerously. 'I know. Legilimency is a magnificent art, is it not? I have already began training my more capable recruits in that lovely branch of magic which allows me to discover the depths of your glaring stupidity. Why, even Mulciber or Travers would have seen through you in a heartbeat, and they are nowhere near so advanced as Rookwood.'  
  
'My Lord,' Dolohov cried out in earnest, 'I could learn Legilimency if you needed me to! I am as faithful as Rookwood, perhaps even more so!'  
  
'Be that as it may,' said Voldemort icily, 'you haven't got half his talent. I know of only one curse you can perform well, and that is not enough to meet my standards or those of the Dark Order, which is why Rookwood is smuggling information from the Department of Mysteries and you are here listening to my nightly musings and waiting on me hand and foot. Now open the window, I am suffocating.'  
  
'My Lord-' began Dolohov, but Voldemort had grown impatient. 'Imperio!' he shouted, angrily, his eyes flaring.'  
  
Open the window. . .Open it. . .serve your master, Dolohov. . .open that window, now!  
  
Dolohov was in a dreamlike state, and his master's voice flowed over him like a calm but controlling wave closing over the head of an overbold surfer. Dolohov immediately obeyed, and upon doing so the first thing he saw when he looked out the window was a tall, slim, auburn-haired and exceedingly beautiful woman driving away from the Riddle House across the street. Staring after her, Dolohov did not even notice that his master had removed the Imperius curse and was now frowning on his servant's apparent obliviousness to reality. Not only could Dolohov not throw off the curse properly, he remained under its spell long after it had been taken away. Frightening, to say the least.  
  
'DOLOHOV!' Voldemort shouted. 'DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU WHEN YOU ARE ALLOWED TO THINK AGAIN?! CRUCIO!'  
  
Dolohov screamed bloody murder for at least a minute, and when finally Voldemort took away the Cruciatus curse he gasped, 'Who was that?'  
  
'Who was who?'  
  
'The woman who was leaving your father's house. When did you recruit her?'  
  
'As of now, I have not recruited any women.'  
  
'But she was there, I saw her. Tall, slim, auburn-haired. . .really very beautiful-'  
  
'I know of no such person.'  
  
'But she was driving away just now-'  
  
'Driving away?! Driving away?! Dolohov, that woman was a Muggle.'  
  
'Some wizards own cars.'  
  
Voldemort snorted. 'Only Mudbloods, Muggle-lovers and other such slime.'  
  
Blissfully unaware that she had attracted the attention of a twisted evil wizard and his all-talk Dark servant, Emma continued driving to the police station that had employed Lieutenant Hopper. She arrived in due time, backed into a perpendicular space, climbed out of her car and walked brazenly inside.  
  
The inside of the station was grungy, and a group of six cops with tattooed arms and tough-guy exteriors were grouped around a table, talking in low voices. The lone policewoman appeared to be the only member of the force actually doing her job, loudly reprimanding a scared-looking youth for some sort of traffic violation.  
  
The minute Emma opened the door, the men hurriedly swept things off the table and stood up around it in order to deliberately block her view. Upon seeing that the new arrival was just a pretty lady, they looked embarrassed and one walked over apologetically.  
  
'Sorry, ma'am,' he said a wheezy voice, 'we thought maybe you was the boss. How can I-'  
  
'It would've served you right if she were,' the policewoman interrupted. 'Betting on poker on the job. . .and you don't even know the rules! A full house beats a flush!'  
  
'It does?!' one of the men yelled, turning on the man sitting next to him. 'You filthy cheater! Give me back my money!'  
  
'Anyway,' continued the cop, pointedly ignoring his co-workers, 'how can I help you, Miss-'  
  
'Mrs Emma Peel. I'm a journalist, investigating the death of Lieutenant Terrence Hopper. Can you tell me anything about him?'  
  
'Hopper?' the man asked incredulously. 'Mrs Peel, you don't want to know about Hopper. Stupid brown-noser, always tattletale-ing on us to the boss- '  
  
'I'll rephrase that. Can you tell me anything relevant about him?'  
  
The tough-guy cop looked slightly abashed, but complied. 'I'll get his file for you,' he said, sounding put out, and he walked into the back room and returned a moment later.  
  
'Hopper was 34, unmarried, lived across the street from his job, whined about his rent and worked the night shift. Last job: investigated a disturbing-the-peace complaint filed by Mrs Brenda Hough. Found dead the following morning.'  
  
'How many cases has Hopper worked on recently?'  
  
'Not a lot. Arrested some twelve-year-olds for drinking last week and proceeded to finish the bottle himself. Hopper was never on any huge cases.'  
  
'Wasn't he lieutenant?'  
  
'Only because he was the boss's pet. He never put anyone really important away, except once.'  
  
'When was that?'  
  
'Let me see'-the cop scanned the file-'May of '65, Hopper busted what he thought was just some bums getting high but what turned out to be the ringleaders of a huge drug chain. His finest hour.'  
  
'I see,' said Emma, 'are they out on parole?'  
  
'Nope. Got ten years, both of 'em, and the judge who sentenced 'em was a real Nazi. They won't be out for a long time.'  
  
'So they couldn't possibly have wanted revenge and targeted Hopper?'  
  
'Sorry. And he didn't have no other enemies neither, except maybe his landlord. Sure, we all hated him here, but he wasn't worth killing. Hopper was good for one thing, and that was keeping the boss happy. When the boss is mad, our jobs start to feel like work.'  
  
Emma was suddenly reminded of a comment Steed had once made, and she wondered what the debonair gentleman of Old World grandeur would think if he knew that there was a scruffy policeman who sported tattoos and spoke in double negatives who was in some respects just like him.  
  
'Well,' Emma said brightly, 'I won't keep you. I have just one more question. Could you tell me if these notes are counterfeit?' Emma reached into purse and took out the notes she'd confiscated from the late Hopper.  
  
The cop seemed a little startled by the query, but he recovered himself quickly. 'Sure thing,' he answered. He took the twenty-pound notes and held them up to the light. 'No, Mrs Peel, they're perfectly legitimate. Why do you ask?'  
  
'Hopper had them on him when he was killed. Assuming he was murdered, why would the killer leave his money?'  
  
'Search me.'  
  
'Well, thanks for your time, sir,' Emma said, not bothering to take back Hopper's forty pounds. She walked quickly out the door, pretending to be oblivious to the fact that the ten eyes of the cops at the table were following her all the way to her car. She fancied that Hopper's money was about to be added to the betting pool, and if she'd stayed a bit longer she would have seen that confirmed.  
  
Meanwhile, John Steed had bid a polite adieu to the old gardener, Frank Bryce, and was just ringing the doorbell of Mrs Brenda Hough's house in Little Hangleton. The front door was opened by a smiling young man in a well-pressed suit.  
  
'State your business?' the young man asked absent-mindedly.  
  
'The name is Steed, John Steed. I'm looking for Mrs Brenda Hough.'  
  
'My mother's at tea with all her little old lady friends. Why do you wish to see her, Mr Steed?'  
  
'It's rather a personal matter.'  
  
'Are you a lawyer?' the young man asked, instantly suspicious.  
  
'No, of course not.'  
  
'I'll get Mother.' When the young man said that, Steed immediately wondered if Mrs Hough would be more or less annoying than his superior, an arrogant, stupid, insufferable fat man in a wheelchair who used 'Mother' as his code name.  
  
'Mother!' cried the young man. 'Gentleman here to see you, says it's a "personal matter." '  
  
'Is he attractive, darling?' came a feeble, old lady croak from the parlour.  
  
'Mother, I am in no position to judge whether or not-'  
  
'Send him in, then.'  
  
'Mum's in the parlour,' said the young man. 'May I take your hat and brolly?'  
  
'Of course,' Steed replied, though slightly unnerved by the old lady's response. Her son took Steed's bowler and his umbrella, then pointed him towards the parlour.  
  
Steed entered the ornate parlour, only to have four sets of ancient-looking eyes immediately rest upon him. The four women grouped around the coffee table were not merely old, they seemed to have more wrinkles than a tree trunk has circles. And they were intrigued. Very intrigued.  
  
'Hello, Mr Steed,' croaked the one in the centre, who had to be Mrs Hough. 'What can I do for you?' she asked, in what she seemed to think was an enticing manner.  
  
'Would you like some tea, Mr Steed?' asked one of Mrs Hough's guests, in the same sort of 'seductive' voice.  
  
'No thank you,' Steed answered politely, not losing his dapper, gentlemanly cadence, but feeling more than just a little ill at ease. 'I'm in the hearing business. Sources tell me that things get a little noisy at night around here, and our company wouldn't want a lovely lady like yourself to be kept up late. We're marketing a new set of earplugs to people in this area. Would you be interested?'  
  
'It does get noisy around here,' replied Mrs Hough, still using her supposedly sexy voice. 'Just last night I had to call the police.'  
  
'What was the trouble?'  
  
'Some crazy young people were making lots of noise.'  
  
'What sort of noise?'  
  
'Explosions. And they were shouting things in another language. It was very disturbing. But let's not talk of it. Won't you sit down, Mr Steed?' By her last sentence Mrs Hough was positively purring, and she had begun to pat the spot next to her while her cohorts stared transfixed at Steed with some kind of hunger.  
  
'Delighted, Mrs Hough, but I'll have to take a rain check,' Steed said quickly. 'Business is business, you know. Good day to you.'  
  
And with that he hurried out the door, ignoring the protests of the old ladies and not even noticing Mrs Hough's son standing in the doorway as he flew past.  
  
It wasn't until Steed had jogged all the way back to the Riddle House that he realised he didn't have his car. 'Mrs Peel,' he sighed resignedly, 'Mrs Peel, you're needed!'  
  
(ANs: Thanks to:  
  
Esteed-Emma meeting up with Voldie? You'll just have to wait and see. Actually, when I first decided to actually write this (WARNING, this review response contains spoilers) I desperately wanted to have Emma face off against Bellatrix, because I hate her and I LOVED Sirius ::sob:: Who better to 'avenge' his wholly undeserved death? But then I realised that Bellatrix was too young to be in this fic, so I had to start thinking again. . .  
  
Cassandra Elise-Never read a Harry Potter book, eh? Ah well, I wasn't interested at first either. Then I opened the first book and couldn't put it down, and J.K. Rowling's been my writing idol since. I actually got the idea for this while reading Book 4 when it first came out three years ago, because Voldemort did something so reminiscent of all the Avengers villains that I started laughing and pondering how he would fare against the impeccable Steed and the indomitable Emma.) 


	3. Sonorus!

Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter, and the Avengers aren't mine either.  
  
(AN: I referred to Wormtail as being seven years old, as I'm fairly certain that the Marauders were all born in 1960. I'm not positive, though, so if I'm wrong, do forgive me.)  
  
Chapter 3: Sonorus!  
  
John Steed paced around nervously, although he did not appear nervous to onlookers. Antonin Dolohov certainly wasn't picking up an ill-at-ease vibe from the impeccably-dressed, brolly-toting gentleman across the street from him. But then again, fooling Dolohov was hardly a difficult feat.  
  
The Death Eater in question turned to his master, Lord Voldemort. 'My Lord?' he asked hesitantly.  
  
'What?' came the cold, sharp reply.  
  
'That man outside,' Dolohov replied, pointing. 'Is he a new recruit, or another curious Muggle?'  
  
Voldemort whirled around to get a better look at the man pacing around in front of his father's house. 'Never seen him before,' Voldemort said silkily. 'But I can guess, Dolohov, that you could do to observe him carefully. You might learn something, if you have the brain capacity to do so, which is admittedly debatable.'  
  
'What do you mean?' Dolohov asked, startled and somewhat affronted that Voldemort was insinuating that he, a pure-blood of high social rank, could possibly have something to learn from a Muggle.  
  
'What do you mean what?' asked Voldemort, his eyes shining evilly.  
  
Cottoning on immediately, Dolohov mentally kicked himself for his blunder. 'What do you mean, my Lord?'  
  
'Good,' said Voldemort, barely suppressing a cackle. 'And now, to answer your question: Look at him. Look at the way he walks, the way he adjusts his bowler, the way he holds his umbrella. . .you could use to emulate him, Dolohov, if you are to succeed on the assignment I am presently designing for you.'  
  
Dolohov wasn't sure what to make of that. On the one hand, he was delighted that he was being entrusted with an assignment all his own; on the other hand, it clearly had something to do with mingling with the Muggle population. . .and there were very few things towards which he was less inclined. So he tried hard to maintain a stiff, passive expression as he queried his master.  
  
'An assignment, my Lord?'  
  
'Yes, Dolohov. A sort of crash course in Muggle behaviour, in order that we might be able to devise more innovative forms of Muggle torture. The same old dull routine does get to be quite mundane after a while. I dislike to be bored, as you well know.'  
  
'My Lord!' Dolohov exclaimed. 'You would put me down to the level of Nott?'  
  
'Wrong. Nott is posing as a Muggle law enforcement officer in order to stop any word from spreading among either society. . .wizarding or Muggle. I installed him there when I discovered that some Muggle had filed a report detailing the actions of Mulciber and Travers against a Mudblood who lived nearby. Nott seized it and destroyed it. He also disposes of other Muggles before they can create another situation like that one. I believe he also disposes of Muggles who have nothing to do with us at all. I almost envy him. You, Dolohov, will not be enjoying such a healthy task.'  
  
Dolohov groaned inwardly. This hardly looked like it was going to be fun. . .but before he could ponder the depths of the hell into which he would soon be plunged, Voldemort spoke again.  
  
'Do you really want to finish that thought, Dolohov, or have you forgotten once again that I am a Legilimens?'  
  
Before Dolohov could think of yet another lame comeback that he would regret that minute he spoke it, the sound of a Muggle car filled the air.  
  
The car sounded like it was coming to a stop, and Dolohov crept towards the window. To his shock, the figure that emerged from the blue sportscar was the tall, thin, auburn-haired and exceedingly beautiful woman from earlier that morning. It really was a grievous misfortune that such an intriguing lady should be a Muggle.  
  
'My Lord!' cried Dolohov. 'She's back! That woman from before!'  
  
Voldemort was just about to perform the Cruciatus curse on his idiot servant, but then he caught a sidelong glance at the woman in question. He had to admit, she was attractive. But he shook his head decisively: She was a Muggle, no matter how desirable. Poor, stupid Dolohov. He'd fit right in as a Muggle. Voldemort wondered why he had ever accepted such a pea brain into his circle in the first place, then remembered that the point of having minions was to keep them as pea-brained and obedient as possible. Besides, he could do much worse: the Daily Prophet society pages had reported two years ago that the Pettigrews' young son had spoken his first word. The boy had been five years old at the time.  
  
Poor, stupid Dolohov was still staring out the window. Voldemort tore out a few strands of his own hair in fury, then turned his wand on Dolohov.  
  
'Imperio!'  
  
Dolohov was in a state of perfect bliss when his master's rabidly angry voice entered his head. His eardrums were immediately blown.  
  
'SHE'S A BLOODY MUGGLE, FOR THE LOVE OF THE GREATEST WIZARD WHO EVER LIVED, SALAZAR SLYTHERIN! Wait on it. . .I take that back. SHE'S A BLOODY MUGGLE, FOR THE LOVE OF THE GREATEST WIZARD WHO EVER LIVED, LORD VOLDEMORT!'  
  
Dolohov recovered his hearing just in time to say the wrong thing. 'I think I finally threw off the curse, my Lord.'  
  
Voldemort bent down in order to look Dolohov directly in the eye. 'I wish you'd learn to throw off your new curse,' he hissed, gesturing out the window.  
  
Dolohov's new curse was just approaching her partner. Steed smiled as Emma Peel drew nearer. 'I was beginning to think you'd forgot all about me.'  
  
'You're not an easy person to forget, Steed, I promise you that,' Emma answered, returning his smile. 'Though I must say I am perplexed to find you here. Weren't you planning to meet with Mrs Hough?'  
  
At this, Steed's face flushed, and he said rather bitterly, 'I did just as I promised, and then I ran. World War II was less frightening.'  
  
Emma gave a dignified chuckle, understanding instinctively what Steed meant. 'Did you get anything out of her?'  
  
Steed gave Emma a scandalised look. She shook her head at him and added, 'About the case.'  
  
Steed sighed. 'I told her I was in the hearing business and asked if she was interested in earplugs to blot out all the noise at night. She took the bait and described to me what she'd heard.'  
  
'What did she say?'  
  
'She said she heard explosions, and people shouting things in another language. It was, and I quote, very disturbing.'  
  
'I see,' said Emma, intrigued. 'I think we might just have another diabolical mastermind on our hands. Though he doesn't seem to have much sense where money's concerned. Hopper had forty pounds on him that the killer didn't bother to pick up.'  
  
'Do you think they're counterfeit?'  
  
'I did wonder about that, and I asked one of Hopper's colleagues about it. He said they were legitimate.'  
  
'What else did you find out?'  
  
'Only that Hopper was generally disliked at work because of alleged brown- nosing, and that he had few enemies outside the force. The policeman I questioned made some joke about his landlord as a possible suspect, which doesn't really make any sense. Even if he wanted to rent the flat at a higher price-'  
  
'-eviction would be a much better course of action,' Steed finished. 'That way-'  
  
'-he wouldn't have to sidestep explaining the sudden death of his former tenant. I know. I'm rather baffled, to be quite honest.'  
  
Steed bit his lip in thought. Suddenly it flooded back to him: the old gardener, Frank Bryce, and his tale of the mysterious murders of the Riddles, which had happened in exactly the same pattern as that of Lieutenant Hopper and the other two victims.  
  
'Mrs Peel,' Steed said urgently, 'I've just remembered. As I was leaving to meet Mrs Hough. . .'  
  
Meanwhile, Dolohov was slightly vexed that two stylish British Muggles had chosen his Lord's ancestral home as a location for what seemed to be a rather important conversation. He drew a deep breath and, in a quiet, uncertain voice, brought up this point to his master.  
  
'Sonorous,' said Voldemort lazily, pointing his wand directly at the brolly- toting gentleman.  
  
Steed had been speaking quite normally, but suddenly he found himself shouting. 'AND HE TOLD ME THAT THEY WERE KILLED TWENTY YEARS AGO, PROBABLY BY THIS TEENAGE BOY-'  
  
'Why are you shouting?!' Emma cried over the din.  
  
'IN EXACTLY THE SAME WAY AS THIS POLICE OFFICER WAS MURDERED LAST NIGHT!'  
  
'Steed, be quiet!'  
  
'I CAN'T! I DON'T KNOW-'and at this point an alarmed Lord Voldemort had quickly screamed, 'Quietus!'-'what's happening.'  
  
'Quick! Modify their memories!' Voldemort shrieked. 'They know!'  
  
'Obliviate!' shouted Dolohov, but John Steed and Emma Peel instinctively flattened themselves against the pavement, avoiding the jet of light that flew over their heads.  
  
'You bloody idiot!' Voldemort screamed. He turned his wand on Dolohov. 'Crucio!'  
  
Steed and Emma made a mad dash for the latter's car, and were a quarter mile out of harm's way before Voldemort realised that they had escaped. Burning with fury, he managed to purse his lips as he gazed down at the trembling form of Antonin Dolohov.  
  
'Your assignment starts now,' he said levelly. 'Find them, and eliminate them. Now.'  
  
A shaky Dolohov was somehow able to nod his head, and he hoisted himself off of the floor with something akin to determination. Dolohov bowed to his master, then opened the door and walked out.  
  
(AN: Thanks, Esteed. Sorry it's taken me so long to update-I've had major writer's block, and besides that, having four fics going at once is not easy. But I'm trying, and I'm really glad someone is reading this. Thanks!) 


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